Don't You Wanna Be Free
by Super Robot Malinarlen
Summary: For the past two years, she's been driving without a license... just to get fried chicken. As inglorious as it, she's earned a street name. Nameless OC. Oneshot.


Desks rattled. Heads were focused down on books, but in the back of the classroom, voices murmured idly.

"Man. Last Saturday, I totally got smoked by an old dodge... truck... Thing was freakin' huge– paint peeling and shit."

"You're kidding, right? By a fat, crappy dodge?"

"Hey man– was this on South Bay by any chance?"

"Huh? How'd you know?"

"Haven't you heard?"

At last, the bell rang and teenagers were rocketing up from their desks, busting out their rusty voices and stampeding for the door.

"Heard what?" Despite the emptying classroom, these guys in the corner kept talking.

"The South Bay B*tch. At least, that's what the local racers call her. A demon, for sure. She won't respond to horns or lights– a guy rolled into the marsh trying to outrun her. She didn't stop or anything– just kept going."

"Wow. That IS a b*tch."

"You're not kidding."

"Who is she?"

"Duh. She never stops. Obviously– no one's been able to find out... yet."

She sat up from her desk, walking out, dejectedly, head lowered and eyes on the ground. _South Bay B•tch, huh? _The name was inglorious. Basically– it just wasn't very cool. Everyone else always got cool names– like The Diablo Saint, El Camino Reaper, or The Highway 1 Star... Though maybe it was because they actually bothered to stop and get friendly with the locals.

But she had a good reason not to.

At the school's crosswalk, she climbed into the family vehicle– an old, silver astro van.

"You're taking your driver's test again today," her mom shrieked, not a hint of mercy in her voice.

"Mom... I can't. I need to study the booklet more–"

"–Stop over-thinking the questions. You're a good driver."

"I just keep flunking–"

"This is part of being a responsible adult." Her mother held the steering wheel with thick, calloused hands. "Even I can pass the test easily, you know. What will you do if a cop catches you?"

If you're caught, nothing can be done. It was all about doing something BEFORE you were caught.

The lobby in the department of motor vehicles smelled like urine and the hard plastic seats smelled like butt. How was that even possible?

After waiting what felt like twenty years, her number was called and she was soon standing behind a cubicle– filling out a paper that was too long to fit into the counter's test collecting basket. After another twenty years, she was called up to be informed that she had failed her test by one point.

Her forehead slammed down upon the sweaty counter. She nearly cried. Did bigger vehicles seriously appear slower than smaller vehicles... no matter what? The test question insisted so. But she could always tell how fast a vehicle was moving– no matter what the size.

"You can take your test again or you can go home and study some more." The woman behind the counter seemed distracted, even cruel. "I recommend studying. Get a handbook and go read it. It's important."

When she looked for a handbook, she could only find them in spanish. No good. The only spanish words she knew was the local town and street names.

On the drive home, her mom screeched at her about everything– yammering on and on and never leaving her thoughts alone. This was probably why dad always had earphones in his ears, listening to his radio. Mom harped about everything.

"Why are you quiet with me? You can't stand me, can you?" Her mom always accused her of this.

Despite the unsatisfied, ashamed feelings settling in her gut, she knew that her mom would soon forget this failure... and that tomorrow was the weekend. Fried chicken night– the race into town to grab a popular grocery store dinner before everyone else bought it up. And finally, some freedom with the truck.

Saturday night came sooner than expected, along with a dense mist which rolled into the sleepy suburbs. Where she lived, there wasn't much to do. If you kept driving up the road past her house, you'd eventually hit the bay, where all the tall, fragrant eucalyptus trees stood. The whole place was just a lost suburb on the map, cut off from the city, drowned by the melancholy bay. Everywhere, musty old houses sat on deep, brown sand. Even the town's name sounded lost.

"Still driving without your license," her mother huffed at the front door. "Well whatever. Your dad is hungry, go get the fried chicken before they're all sold out. Drive smooth so you don't squish the hawaiian buns, or I'll make you drive back and get some more. If that happens, you eat the cost."

"Ok, mom. Love you too."

Pulling on her cheap, acrylic blue sweater, she held her keys and climbed into her mom's white, sixteen-year-old truck. A dodge with peeling paint and a moldy camper shell locked on the back. Her mom said that the shell helped stabilize the back-end– whatever that meant. Her mom was always lecturing her about 'knowing where your wheels are so you can control your slide.' That was how you kept the hawaiian buns puffy and squish-free.

For the past two years, at her mom's request, she had been driving every Saturday to go get fried chicken from the next town over. The next town over was on the other side of the bay, and the road there was long, winding, and dippy– with several spots in the middle were police officers perpetually sat.

Though she didn't think it was that treacherous of a road, the swarms of tourists that drove it every summer always seemed to go slower than sin. But she figured that was mostly because they were busy staring at the impressive marsh and estuary which paralleled the road. At least, that's what she figured they were staring at. The was nothing but a wall of mountain on the other side of the road– and that itself wasn't much to stare at.

She pushed the truck past eighty-five and the engine was roaring like a rocket ship. Beside her, some familiar guys came around in their tiny, bright red car. Pulling up beside her on the two-way road, they honked their horn and struggled to look up at her, giving her the finger and no doubt shouting obscenities. She looked away so they couldn't see her face.

_I wanna break out–_

Yanking her wheel, she slid around the wide curve, staying side-by-side with them and riding the inner line– coming close to scraping the boulders protruding on the road's mountain side.

"Come on!" The red car's driver pumped the gas pedal. His friends taunted him in the back seat– their camcorder and camera phones held high to record everything.

"You're going to let some wh*re in a truck beat you?...!"

"That thing wasn't even made for speed– it was made for hauling gravel and cow sh*t!"

"She's playing chicken– she's gonna bump us off the road–"

"WHAT THE HELL?"

Around the bend, they saw an oncoming car, and screaming their heads off, they let off the gas and pulled back behind– cursing as she gunned ahead and lost them.

"Not cool... How did she keep from fishtailing on that turn?"

"A driver's race, man. Better luck next time."

That night, she ate glorious fried chicken.

THE END.


End file.
